Letters and Lace (The Ronan's Harbor Series) (2 page)

Well, she’d give him no reason now to approach her with his red, distress-of-constipation-looking pinched face. Or worse, to use his mocking tone that always rang out with his signature put-down—calling her
Sarah Doodle.
No. Above all else, no.

Thankfully, these days she was far from Gary’s scrutinizing radar, he being consumed with his new wife and their toddler, of all things. Why Gary had decided to become a father again at fifty still baffled her.

Gary’s new little family kept him busy enough to leave Sarah alone these days, but somehow she sensed his persistent I-told-you-so hovering over her head like a canopy of thorns. She figured that certainly justified her delight when she’d learned Gary’s colicky bundle of joy was lactose intolerant and had mastered the art of projectile vomiting. Sarah smiled at the thought, then banished it.

“You love this place,” Hannah said. Her tone was round, wrapped in appreciation.

Sarah watched her daughter’s eyes scan the sunroom. She tried to view it through Hannah’s eyes and did her best to ignore the brief doubt that fluttered across her skin. Was it foolish to believe she could actually pull this off? Her gaze found Hannah’s. “You love The Cornelia, too. Almost as much as I do.”

Hannah laughed. “Nobody could love the old girl as much as you do, Mom. Not after all you’ve put into it.”

At the time of their all-too civilized severance it had taken all the courage she could muster to thumb her nose at Gary’s sympathy-laced offer of alimony. She’d looked him in his gray-blue eyes and said, “Keep it.”

Afterward every cell in her body had rattled with fear. She had made sure he’d never known her utter terror at pulling off being a sole innkeeper, viewed it as a dare.

He’d never learned of those early days when she’d dined on spaghetti and had stretched her food budget to its limit with peanut butter and jam on store-brand English muffins. She’d kept mum about all the sleepless nights, the wee hours of the morning spent at her little writing desk pouring over her books unsure of how she’d keep the lights on, and the furnace full of oil.

Now, there was no way she would let that municipal authority letter intimidate her. And, she sure as hell wasn’t letting Gary in on it. Nor was there the need to bother Hannah with the complaint. She’d fix it. She had to.

She sipped her tea, letting it warm its way through her, just like her determination that Hannah’s wedding would be perfect, a total success attributable to her capable hand.

“Your wedding needs to be here. Right here in this room.”

“If you’re not worried, then I’m not worried.” Hannah furnished a small grin.

“Now, you’d better go on and get ready. Aren’t you meeting your fiancé in the City?”

“Oh, my God—Ian.” Hannah bolted from the room, padding up the stairs in her fuzzy slippers.

“Hmm…” Sarah said with a smirk. “And, you’re wondering how
I
can juggle everything?”

As soon as Hannah had disappeared up the staircase to their small third floor apartment, Sarah grabbed the letter again and reread it. Damn whoever it was that was making a case out of this.

Keeping this from Hannah and anyone else would be no easy feat in Ronan’s Harbor. Not with the way news—all kinds, but mostly bad—spread around the little shore town like honey on a hot scone.

Hannah re-appeared, dressed and ready for her trip into the City. She stood in the sunroom’s entrance, tall and lean, smart-looking in her pencil skirt and blouse.

“I almost forgot about meeting Ian,” Hannah said, her tone rushed. She fiddled with the clasp of her wristwatch. “I’ve got to run.”

“Don’t rush. Drive safely,” Sarah said, painting a smile on her face. She’d spare Hannah. She’d straighten it out with the town and her daughter wouldn’t even have to know. Just a technicality, after all. Easy peasy.

“I’ll call you,” Hannah’s eyes fell to the cluster of envelopes on the table. “Was that the mailman at the door earlier, Mom?”

“Yes,” Sarah said, forcing disinterest into her tone. Her hand floated to rest onto the teacup atop the letters.

“Was it Norman Wallace?” Hannah’s words were in sing-song and a wide grin broke out across her face. “Since when do we get door-to-door service, Mother?” Her voice filled with implication, her tone light and teasing. “Special delivery for a special lady?”

“Oh, stop it.” Sarah waved her off. “Don’t you have an appointment to get to?”

“Mr. Wallace has a crush on you, Mom.”

Sarah stood from the chair and pulled the envelopes into her grasp. “Don’t be silly.”

“I think you should invite him to be your guest at the wedding. He can catch the garter.” Hannah gave an exaggerated wink.

The image of poor Norman cha-chaing on her front porch almost made Sarah laugh again. No. She would not be dating the mailman.

“Come on, seriously, Mom. After all your work with the planning of it, wouldn’t it be nice to enjoy the festivities with a date?”

“Planning your wedding isn’t work, sweetie,” Sarah said. It’s my pleasure.”
And no complaining neighbor or fool town law is going to ruin it.

“
You never have any fun, Mom. You need to, you know, go out a little.”

“I do,” Sarah said. “As a matter of fact Gigi and I are painting the town red this very evening, going to go stay out to all hours of the night. Be, you know, hussies.”

Hannah laughed loud, shaking her pretty head. “Are you two going to Captain’s Pier House again tonight? Is that your hot time?”

“Yes,” Sarah said, lifting one shoulder against the remark. “It happens to be Ladies Night.”

“Oh, wow, sure you can handle a night of Mr. Bailey’s three-piece combo playing their version of The Beatles?”

“The City, my darling, the City” Sarah said pointing toward the doorway. “Now go. Give my love to Ian.”

****

Alone in the foyer, Sarah’s gaze sought the framed oil portrait adorning the wall above the antique credenza. Cornelia Vandermark DeGraff looked out from the frame, dark brown eyes painted expertly to reveal the courage Sarah knew resided inside her inn’s namesake.

Cornelia stood before the parlor’s fireplace, one delicate hand clasping an ornate silk fan. The young widow’s frothy, lemon-chiffon-colored gown gathered low beneath her corseted waist, draping with swags of fabric that swooped around to her back—a tailor’s masterpiece scandalously unbefitting a woman who’d lost her husband, tyrant though he’d been.

Sarah knew well the story behind the regal brunette with her hair femininely clustered in ringlets atop her crown and girlish bangs frizzled over her forehead. Cornelia DeGraff had not been a delicate flower.

The founder of the Ronan’s Harbor Garden Club had been a maverick, unwilling to conform to societal morés. Sarah knew that pretty prop in her hand had been less her norm than the pipe she was rumored to have smoked out on her front porch—much to the shock of the townsfolk.

What would Cornelia have done about the filed complaint? She looked the old girl dead in the eye. “We won’t stand for it, will we, Cornelia?”

Sarah retrieved the letter and shoved it into her jeans pocket. She needed to remember to bring it along with her tonight to show her best friend. Gigi would help her come up with a strategy.

She spent the day going over her lists, cross-checking her calendar, careful not to forget any of the wedding details appointments or the workmen’s projected scheduling. She marked down Monday night’s meeting at the town hall regarding the complaint.

No matter how she tried to avoid thinking about it, the news hung in her head like an infection, throbbing against her temples, reminding her she had a problem.

It was dusk when Sarah finally put away her paperwork. As if on automatic pilot she entered her bathroom and ran water to fill the tub. A hot soak usually worked miracles whenever she needed to wash away stress.

How much of my adult life have I spent with pruny skin?
Based on the possibility of some saboteur ruining her sunroom plans—and halting Hannah’s dream wedding at the inn—Sarah figured she’d have oak tree-like bark for skin before Monday night at seven-thirty.

The phone rang while she soaked. Sarah was careful not to drop the handset into the water where the previous one, as well as her MP-3 player, had met their sudsy demise.

She heard her friend, Gigi’s sensuous tone. “Ready for action?”

“Ready,” Sarah said, attempting to sound enthused. She closed her eyes, leaning against the inflatable pillow Gigi had given her one Christmas. “Just taking a bath.”

“A, you don’t sound ready, and B, you only switch from shower to bath when you need to escape something cruddy.”

Sarah smiled against the device in her wet hand. A, Gigi often spoke in bullet points, and B, she knew Sarah better than anybody on the planet. So C, there was no sense in giving her friend lip service. She blew out a long breath, chasing some bubbles off her fingertips. “Cruddy’s the right word.”

“Okay, spill it.”

“We’ll talk about it later at the Pier House. I got a letter today from town hall. Somebody filed a complaint against me.”

“What asshole would do that?” Gigi’s normally deep tone changed to her angry rasp. “Are you serious?”

“Yup.” Sarah was too tired to discuss it now. The high temperature of the water was making her drowsy.

“Okay, Sarah, look. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. Nobody’s pulling that shit and getting away with it. Remember that time the Coopers tried to sue me because their geraniums died after a week?”

A lazy grin grew on Sarah’s face as she remembered the disgruntled customers trying to poison townspeople’s minds against Bayside Blossoms, her friend’s treasured flower shop.

The only poison that had taken hold was the entire box of plant food Gigi discovered the fools had dumped onto their freshly planted bed of geraniums, wiping out the poor plants like a plague. Sarah recalled how she and Gigi had sneaked onto the woman’s property after dark to get a soil sample.

Yes, Gigi was right. Nobody pulls that shit and gets away with it.

Sarah sat up straight in the tub. It was time to get out and give her skin the chance to resume what smoothness it had left after forty-six years of bubble therapy.

“You know what, Gigi, you’re right. Whoever this complainer is better watch out.”

“Tonight we’ll make a toast,” Gigi said. “To the sorry ass who thinks they can mess with us.”

“You got it,” Sarah said. “See you later.”

She pressed the “off” button and the handset began to slip from her grasp. Frantically, she jerked her hand out from the tub and the handset fell to the floor and skidded across the tile.
Saved, at least, from drowning. I’ll check the blunt-force trauma later.

She leaned over to the chrome lever at the front of the tub and gave it a full twist. She heard the momentary pop of water startled from its complacency followed by the gurgle as it drained.

By the time Gigi was due to come by for her Sarah had regrouped sufficiently, even when the doubt of her ability to combat the complaint tried to encroach into her brain. She reminded herself that though she wasn’t sure how, she would be saving her plans.

She took extra care in her appearance for tonight, deciding to dress with her “as-if” mentality. She didn’t pull out the strategy often, but it had its merits—appear
as if
you’re full of confidence and there’s a good chance the world will believe it.

Tonight in her close-fit black pants and trendy tunic sweater, she had the look of assurance. The silver hoop earrings, the long drippy chain necklace—all of it worked the façade. Sarah straightened her shoulders and air-kissed her painted lips toward the image in the mirror. Confidence, she was loaded with it.

Later, as they drove down Ocean Avenue toward the beach on their way to The Pier House, Gigi bubbled with typical excitement.

“Something awesome’s in store for us tonight, Sarah,” she said with a broad grin. “I feel it.” She scrunched her nose for emphasis.

“If you say so.”

Gigi clucked her tongue. “Come on. Loosen up. You look great, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Sarah said. “So do you.”

In contradiction to Sarah’s smooth-lined outfit, Gigi’s ensemble had been sewn with threads soaked in “wow.” There was that familiar flash in Gigi’s eyes that matched the electric blue of her billowy blouse. No one needed to tell her she looked great.

Gigi hummed with audible admiration. “Girl, your ex should see you these days.”

Sarah’s fingers brushed over the soft strands of her un-sprayed hair, a flowing mass of waves that had a mind of its own. She’d abandoned the tedious efforts to straighten the arrogant waves years ago—especially since it had been Gary’s idea in the first place.

When the strings of pin lights lining the roof of the small building came into twinkly view, Gigi flipped down the visor above her head and looked into the rectangular vanity mirror, lit now by a small bulb.

“Um, you’re driving,” Sarah commented.

Gigi, ignoring Sarah’s observation, ran well-manicured fingers over her pointed, spiky hair—jet black these days, color choice of the month. Just two months earlier, her short wacky hair had been a deep red—burgundy really—in honor of Valentine’s Day.

Sarah’s wheat-brown that had been the same all her life. It was true, Sarah supposed, that no two women could appear more unalike. But, it had been love at first sight for the two friends on the day Sarah had walked into her first Garden Club meeting.